


A Stampede of Halla

by yamikuronue



Series: Queer Thedas [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anders Dies, Chronic Pain, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Abuse, Trans Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-01 08:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15139496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamikuronue/pseuds/yamikuronue
Summary: Anders was the only one who could ease Fenris' pain. Now, what's left for him but to curl up and wait for death, watching the world burn down around him? But Carver Hawke has other plans for him -- plans that require a trip to Skyhold in a desperate bid to save his life. He expected isolation and a slow decline, but now he has a whole new group to deal with. Will he find his place in the world, only to die in pain?Ellana Lavellan always expected to one day be the Keeper of her Clan. Somehow, fate had other plans: she's found herself leading an Inquisition, giving orders to a bunch of humans and holding her own with the great powers of the world. It almost seems like the Dread Wolf is playing a trick on her: by taking her away from her people, he's delivered to her a mentor more learned and wise than even Keeper Deshanna. If only she can hold things together long enough, maybe there's hope for the Dalish to be restored to their former greatness. If only...





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris awoke, drenched in sweat, to one of his favorite smells: the foul, acrid stench of burnt bacon. Some mornings it took him a little time to remember where he was when he awoke; sometimes, his dreams were vivid enough that he struggled to remember which was the dream and which the waking world. But he never dreamed of burnt bacon and blackened toast for breakfast.

There was a time he'd fared better: toast just the right shade, and leftover beans from the night before, most mornings. Then again, there was a time he fared much worse, eating what scraps he could salvage from his Master's table as he cleared it. Burnt bacon wasn't so bad. Not when it meant someone was there to burn it.

The pain was rarely too bad while he remained in bed. He knew as soon as his feet bore his own weight, the aches would start again: a cold, seeping into his bones overnight, would flare into proper pain. Only the dull sort of pain, most days. If he was lucky. On bad days, it would feel as though all his nerves were aflame.

Today he was lucky. It only felt as though he'd been buried in snow and left for dead. He grit his teeth, hobbling his way toward the kitchen, making sure to straighten as he passed the guest room where Aveline lay sleeping just in case.

_Maker. As though she could_ hear _pain._ Still, better safe than sorry. The woman frightened him, and not just because of her extraordinary senses.

"Good morning!" The younger Hawke was, in addition to being a serial bacon-burner, a distressingly cheery excuse for a human being in the mornings. Fenris grunted in reply, taking a seat at the table.

"How did you sleep?" Fenris didn't reply, but Carver must have noticed the sweat stains in his white hair; the ex-Templar frowned as he set the elf's plate down in front of him. "Nightmares again?"

"It's fine," he replied curtly.

"Was it the wolf with Anders' eyes?"

"I said it's fine." Fenris glared at his friend, willing the human to drop the subject.

"Well, I know what'll cheer you up," replied Carver, undaunted. "I found the location of some more apostate mages. We can hunt them today, just you and me, how about?"

Fenris paused a moment, considering. _It'd be good to help out. Do something useful for a change. But this pain..._ Seeing the worry in Carver's eyes, he leaned forward and kissed him briefly. "I would love nothing more."

\---

There were a few things he missed about his time in Kirkwall, before it all fell apart. Chief among them were a pair of piercing blue eyes and a dashing smile, but every day he was learning to live with that one a little more. Second, however, was the mage's skill with healing. He'd been able to create a balm made with Lyrium that eased even the worst of Fenris' pain -- a balm he'd long since run out of, with no way of getting more. With the Mage-Templar war showing no sign of stopping, he'd no ready access to Lyrium even if he knew how to make it.

Once, he'd even tried asking the dwarf to source raw Lyrium, on the off-chance that alone could sooth his aches. It hadn't. They'd agreed never to speak of the incident again once Fenris stopped puking.

Finally, desperate for anything that might help, he'd sought out Carver, hoping that the templar still used. He did, as it turns out -- but he had Aveline, Guard-Captain for Kirkwall, bring him refined Lyrium on her twice-annual visits, meaning the elf had to deal with her periodic presence to get what he craved. He'd let Carver assume the stuff helped fuel his tattoos; he'd held himself to as little as he could manage, bearing the pain as long as he could stand before reluctantly taking a dose. It never took the pain away like the cream had, but it seemed to reset the pain down to a more tolerable level.

He'd been in constant pain for the better part of five years.

\---

The battle went well, for the most part. Between himself and Carver, they were able to subdue most of the mages with ease. He never tired of the looks on their faces when their abilities ceased working, when their magic and demons deserted them and left them with only their own strength to keep them safe from Fenris' blade. As he tied up what he thought was the last one, however, he felt an arm slip around his throat. He didn't have time to so much as take a breath before the pain lit up his skin, whiting out his vision.

There was nothing but pain and desperation for a long while.

Then there was force on his chest, air in his lungs. There was coughing, choking, and then desperate gasps as his lungs reminded him they needed air to function. He rolled onto his side as his stomach tried to empty itself of bile, fighting with his lungs for control of his airway.

"Fenris!"

Twin agonies: his hearing returning, and the pain and terror in Carver's voice. He struggled to lift his arm, only for white-hot pain to flood through him again. This time he heard himself cry out, a most undignified sound.

_Is this it? Am I finally-- Anders, wait for me. Please be there. Please don't let me face the Beyond alone._

"Dammit, Fenris, don't you die on me, not today, do you hear me?" He felt a hand rest on his back, and then the blessed, cooling numbness of Carver's touch washing over his skin. He choked back a sob, more of relief than any real regret, his eyes tightly closed just in case the pain decided to return.

"Not... dead," he grunted, gasping for breath.

"Damn right." Carver's voice was relieved, though Fenris noticed he didn't remove his hand. "Idiot. Why didn't you _tell_ me it was getting this bad?"

"Not.. bad."

"This isn't bad?" Carver's laugh was incredulous, tinged with fear. "Maker. What do you consider _bad_?"

Fenris couldn't find the air to tell him about the days he could barely drag himself out of bed, days he wondered if soiling himself was worth not having to put weight on his ankles, his knees. Days he wondered if it was worth taking Lyrium at all -- days he wondered if he should down his whole supply and wait for a painful, messy death to put him out of his misery. Those days were never far off, but so far, he'd never succumbed to the temptation. Not yet.

His silence must have spoken volumes. Carver sighed. "We're going to Orlais."

"Orlais?"

"There's a woman there that might be able to help. A friend of Varric's. An elf, like you. Maybe you'll get along."

Somehow, Fenris doubted it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Carver visit the Inquisition. Carver confesses to Fenris.

Ellana Lavellan leaned over the ramparts of Skyhold, looking out over the courtyard, watching her people. It still frightened her some days to look down over the crowd, to see them all as _her_ people, her own Tribe over which she was the Keeper. People, horses, and oxcarts came in and out of the gate, carrying goods, supplies, and information to the Inquisition. _Her_ Inquisition.

"Ah, Inquisitor."

She turned with a smile, as she always did when she heard Cullen's sunny, warm voice. "Commander," she replied, doing her best not to get lost in those lovely blue eyes. Human men had made her heart thump before, and she was sure they would again -- but it was never a good idea for a Dalish to get involved with a human, let alone a Templar. She respected his judgement, she admired his resolve to abstain from lyrium, and maybe in her private moments she dreamed of him, but she would not, could not, get involved. _Not again._

He gave a small bow, a smile quirking his lips. "You have visitors," he added, inclining his head back toward the doorway he'd come through. "Those friends Varric mentioned. He's taken the Captain to the tavern, while the other two are getting settled into their chambers."

"Ah. Thank you, Cullen. I'll be right down." She grinned, hopping up onto the stone railing with ease.

"Don't--"

But it was too late. She toppled backward, trusting in the ancient Elven magic to slow her descent, landing elegantly on her feet far below as always. Cullen raked a hand through his hair, grimacing.

"I hate when she does that."

\---

There was a place for everyone at Skyhold. Sure, people ran errands, performed duties, even left the hold for a while, but when Ellana needed them, mostly, they were predictable, falling into set routines. Cassandra would find a nice place to practice, for example, while Cullen would be at his desk going over reports and troop movements. The Iron Bull and his Chargers belonged in the tavern, drinking and talking, while she knew Sera would be in her corner up the stairs and Cole would be hanging about the upper floor spying on those below.

Varric's place was in the Great Hall, where he could easily watch the train of people coming and going, eavesdropping on secrets and pulling his fresh-out-of-a-hole routine for the Orlesian nobles dumb enough to buy it. Today, he was in the tavern, claiming a table across the room from the Chargers, looking for all of Thedas like he was on a _date_ with a broad-shouldered human redhead. _Too weird,_ Ellana decided. She could adapt to a lot: riding some rotting draconic creature like it was a Halla, plummeting four stories like she was walking down a gentle hillside, holes in the sky and her hand glowing bright green, but Varric dating would be the step too far. He belonged free, at her side with a snide comment, unaffected by any of the weird shit in their life. The idea of him having a personal life -- having a lover, close friends she'd never met, a whole inner world that didn't involve her -- unsettled her on a fundamental level.

It wasn't that she was selfish, exactly. Her Keeper had never accused her of that. Feckless, foolhardy, and rash, perhaps. Too addicted to danger, too ready to throw herself at dragons, perhaps. Too myopic, too concerned with the immediate future to see the greater good in the long run. In other words, all she'd been accused of was being _young_ \-- an affliction she was assured would pass in time. After all, she was only twenty. She should have plenty of years to mature, safe at home in Clan Levellan, studying under Keeper Deshanna.

She had to have faith. Andraste had saved her for a reason. She would rise to the demands of the Inquisition, make her people proud, and return to be a Keeper with more worldly experience than any before. She would make her people proud. She had to.

Ellana spun a chair around backward, sitting with her chin on her hands. "Hi! I'm the Inquisitor. Nice to meetcha."

"Aveline Vallen," the woman replied, eyeing her carefully. "It's an honor to meet you."

"Red here's not staying long," the dwarf added, lifting his mug. "Apparently being a guard captain involves actual work from time to time."

"I'd invite you to return with me, but I'd hate to subject you to honest labor. You might keel over."

Ellana laughed, sitting back a little and signaling for another round. "I'd love to hear about Kirkwall. I know so little about the Free Marches."

"Kirkwall's a shithole, end of story," joked Varric, and all was right with Ellana's morning once more.

\---

"So-las," Ellana sang as she entered the side door to his study. She was always glad to spend time with the elf; he reminded her of Keeper Deshanna in some ways, seeming ancient and mysterious and wonderful. His studies into the history of her people invigorated her, giving her hope that the Dalish could one day be restored to glory as a people through his dreams. She was always glad to spend time with him, despite his reserved, stoic nature. If there was any chance he could bring back the ancient magics, even in some small way, she would do anything he asked.

"Inquisitor," he greeted her. Most couldn't hear the warmth in his dry voice, but she knew him by now, knew the subtle longing in his voice when he spoke of the ancient world -- and, these days, when he spoke to or of her. She rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek, reaching for his hand.

"Come. Varric told me something of our new guest, I'm hoping between you and Dorian you can help him."

"Dorian?"

Ellana nodded. "He's from Tevinter. Maybe Dorian knows something about these markings. He's taking a look now, but I wanted you also. You know so much, so many pieces of history I've never even heard in the lore... if there's some strange magic at work, maybe you can untangle it."

Solas' smile deepened; to Ellana's practiced eyes, he practically glowed with pride in her assessment of him. "Very well. I am at your service, Inquisitor."

\---

Fenris struggled to sit up, hating the weakness in his bones, hating the ache deep inside. He didn't want to be lying down when the healer came in; it was small and petty, but he wanted to present a good face. The pain hadn't dulled much along their journey; his bones felt frozen, and he was short of breath trying to hold the pain at bay. Ideally he'd be standing like a warrior, his sword in both hands, but right now all he could manage was sitting up, leaning against the wall a bit for support.

He was glad of it a moment later, when a Magister walked in. The man had dark hair, dark eyes, and a foppish, overly decorative moustache, but it was the subtle smirk that got to Fenris. If this Magister hadn't been one of the ones who'd had him like a toy when he was owned by Denarius, then it was his brother, or perhaps his father. His hands curled into fists, and he burned with the need to sit up, to punch him right in the mouth.

"Fenris!" barked Carver. "Your tattoos."

They were glowing, searing lines of pain into his skin, but he didn't care. There was a _Magister_ not ten feet from him, and all he could do was growl and glare.

"Perhaps another time," the man began, backing away with fear in his eyes.

"What's got into you?" asked Carver.

For a moment, Fenris couldn't -- didn't -- answer. Then he grit his teeth, hating himself all the more, and snarled, "Get that _Magister_ away from me."

"Ah, technically, I'm-- "

"Maker's teeth," sighed Carver. "Sorry, I didn't-- look, would you mind leaving? We can sort all this out once my friend is calm again."

Fenris had to give him credit for one thing: the Magister knew when he wasn't wanted. He gave a bow, slipping back out of the room, leaving the two in peace.

"Are you alright?" asked Carver, worry creasing his brow.

"Fine. Never better."

Carver sighed, running his fingers along Fenris' arm. "I'm sorry. That must have been hard, seeing a Vint all the way out here."

His touch soothed the aches in Fenris' arm, though it woke other desires in him. "Don't," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "I don't want anything of you near anything of him."

"What do you mean?" Carver asked, lifting his hand.

"I mean, I don't want to be reminded of the damn Magisters when you touch me," he snarled in reply.

"Oh. _Oh_. You were..."

"Yes." He felt tired, and sore, and a little sick, and the last thing Fenris wanted to do was explain how he had been used, over and over, for years.

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't do this."

"I'm sorry anyway." Carver sighed. "You know I wouldn't--"

"I'm aware you have no interest in that," said Fenris, exhausted.

"It's not that I have no interest," the Templar said, with a dark laugh. "Rather the opposite."

Now Fenris turned to look at him. "I am and have been interested," he began, warily.

"In what you think is there. Perhaps less so in what is."

"Riddles," the warrior sneered.

Carver shrugged. "Do you have an interest in women?"

"No."

"I thought as much."

"Why would that _matter_?"

Carver laughed again, his dark, bitter laugh. "I was born with a deformity," he began.

"You are... small?" offered the ex-slave.

"You could say that."

"If you can't speak plainly--"

"I was born with parts like a woman." Carver sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I understand if you're not interested. I get that a lot. I figured it's best not to make a move while that remains unsaid."

Fenris stared for a moment, peering at Carver's face, looking for what he knew he'd find now that he was looking for it: slim cheekbones, a delicate build. Yes, if he pictured longer hair, he could see it: Carver would look just like his older sister. _Something to think about later,_ he scolded himself, shaking his head. _I can't let him distract me._ "Why are you bringing this up _now_ , of all times?"

Carver stared at him. "I almost lost you once, very recently," he said quietly. "And you've just refused to see the only healer I know who might be able to help. I... I don't want to lose you, Fenris. I'm worried we might not have much time left."

Fenris considered the matter a few moments, staring down at his hands. Finally, quietly, he spoke: "Alright. Bring him back. I'll speak with him."

\---

Elana dropped Solas' arm when she saw Dorian pacing in the hallway. "That bad?" she asked, her tone all business.

Dorian shook his head. "I couldn't take a look yet."

She frowns. "What's happened?"

"I'm fairly certain he wants to kill me."

"A common affliction," remarked Solas.

"What? Why?" demanded the Inquisitor.

"I suspect the slave markings have something to do with it."

"Maker," swore Ellana. "Alright. I'll go in, see if I can't smooth things over."

She reached for the door, but it was already swinging open. She found herself face-to-face with a pair of stunning dark eyes, rough-cut dark hair, and a familiar nervous grin. "Hawke?" she blurted out, before she could stop herself.

"That's me," he said, in a much lower voice than she expected. She must have looked confused, because he frowned, sighed, and held out his hand for a shake. "Carver Hawke. You're probably thinking of my sister."

"Yeah-- yeah, sorry. Carver. Good to meet you." Ellana shook his hand firmly.

"I suppose."

"No, really. Any friend of Varric's is a friend of mine."

"We're friends?" he quipped. "Come in, please. I was just stepping out to get the, ah, healer. They had a bit of a spat, but--"

"I can assure you, Dorian's not like other Tevinter mages."

"Good to hear," said Carver, too heartily for the Inquisitor to believe genuine. "Please, if there's anything you can think to do for Fenris..."

"Of course." And with that, Ellana took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked into the room.

Carver slipped past her to speak with Dorian; therefore, it was Ellana alone who saw Solas' first, unguarded reaction. She had turned slightly towards him, opening her mouth to make introductions, when she saw him take a half step back, sucking in his breath rapidly as though in pain, his eyes wide. _Fear? But why--?_

"Why have you brought me this?!" Ellana had never heard Solas speak so firmly, so commandingly. His voice was always gentle, and perhaps a little sad -- but now he sounded bold, like a porcupine backed into a corner and trying to make itself seem larger.

"Solas? My love?"

"Why have you brought me a _slave_ , vhenan?" The firmness was gone as quickly as it had come, but the wide eyes, the rapid breath, these things had not faded. There was no mistaking it: Solas, her beloved mentor, was afraid.

"I-- you know why," she began, puzzled.

Solas swallowed, taking another step back. "And yet, you remain here? You do not fear me?"

"...Solas?" Ellana whispered. "You're scaring me now. I've never seen you like this."

A tense moment passed, and then another. Solas straightened, inching forward, peering at her. "...You brought him here to see if I could heal him," he said slowly, almost wonderingly.

"...yes? I-- I don't know anyone else who knows so much about magic as you."

"Because I know about ancient magics. That's why? That's all?"

"Solas..." Ellana stared at her lover, wondering what was going on. _Was he enslaved, and escaped?_ she wondered, biting her lower lip.

"No. Please, it's fine. I must be-- I must have eaten something unusual. Please, forgive me." With that, he fled past the other mage and the warrior, leaving Ellana to stare after him, wondering what just happened.

Wondering what her mentor was hiding.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams in the Fade

Inquisitor Levellan wasn't worried, per se. The Inquisitor was never worried, or afraid, or small; she was a figure to be feared, respected, admired. She was strong, and brave, and always knew the right thing to do, even if somtimes she had to spend hours alone in prayer before she could figure it out.

Ellana, the barely-of-age Dalish girl, never knew quite what she was doing. But here, in Skyhold, she couldn't be Ellana. That impulsive young girl had died at Haven, when the Inquisitor realized she'd have to lead her people through one of the most terrifying events in written history.

So Lavellan wasn't worried. Worry was for people who weren't personally chosen by Andraste to lead Thedas into a new era of peace and justice. She was merely mildly concerned as she tread the familiar path from her chambers, down the steps, across the throne room, and into Solas' study. It wasn't like him to make a flimsy excuse and vanish as he had the day before; wherever he'd gone, he clearly wanted to be alone, as she couldn't find him in any of the usual spots.

He was back, today; he smiled as he glanced up and saw her. "Inquisitor! You're just in time. There's something I wish to show you."

"Is it about Fenris?" she asked, and his smile dimmed.

"After a fashion. Please, this way."

She wasn't entirely surprised when he led her outside, into the mountains. She had a fleeting thought to inform Cullen where she was going, but she knew Solas wouldn't appreciate it if she did, and Cullen needed to learn how to trust her more anyway. So she followed him at a respectful distance, ready to learn whatever it was he had to show her, just as she had from Keeper Deshanna. 

That said, she was a wee bit surprised to find herself at Haven. "Why here?" she asked, unable to reign in her natural curiosity.

"Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you."

It made sense. It was at Haven that she first came into her own as Inquisitor, mostly because it was here that she was made Inquisitor. When she'd arrived, she'd been Keeper-in-training Ellana, bright eyed and mystified by all this Andraste stuff, ready to witness what peace the shemlen could arrange for themselves. By the time she left, she was Inquisitor Levellan, Chosen of Andraste, with the weight of the world on her shoulders. So of course Haven would be important to her: it was the boulder that diverted the stream of her life into another, harder path.

"We talked about that already," she said, frowning slightly as something else nagged at her, something important about Haven. They had spoken of it already, more than once: how she worried she would become too much like a shemlen and lose what little heritage had been passed onto her as a child, how she wanted to find a way to be both an elf and the Inquisitor. Solas simply led her onward, not acknowledging her comment as they passed into the Chantry dungeons. There was something odd about that, too; she couldn't place what, couldn't recall precisely the steps she'd walked so often, so lost in thought was she.

Just as she almost thought she might have figured out what the odd thing was, Solas broke the silence: "I sat beside you while you slept, studying the anchor."

She smiled, despite herself. _Solas was there to protect and guide me, even when I was not awake to understand it. Just like an elder should._ Without thinking, she fell into the habit he had long cultivated in her: asking questions, practical ones, about his research and about the mark on her hand. 

But today he seemed to have a different angle in mind. "Cassandra threatened to have me executed if I didn't produce results," he mused, with a fond smile.

"She's like that with everyone," Ellana laughed, watching Solas' face. _He's different, too, away from Skyhold. More open, more expressive. I wonder why?_

His smile dimmed, and he turned away. What felt like seconds later, they were outside, Ellana hurrying to catch up with her tutor as he continued: "You were never going to wake up. How could you? A mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened; the spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach."

She understood, then, raising an arm toward him, but lowering it. _He was frightened. Great, terrible things were happening around him and he was expected to make sense of them, just like I am. He knows a lot, but he's no expert in this. Nobody is. How could they be?_ "I understand," she said quietly. "You were lost, surrounded by shemlen, expected to work miracles."

Something strange came over Solas' face, then: an odd softening, a hint of long-buried pain. He didn't acknowledge it, merely pushing on: "I had no faith in Cassandra, nor her in me. I was ready to flee."

Ellana smiled. "The breach threatened the whole world. Where did you plan to go?"

"I never said it was a good plan," he admitted, with a small, restrained smile. He turned, then, to gesture at the hole in the sky: "I told myself, one more attempt to seal the rifts. I failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then..."

She knew what came next, could see it play out before her eyes, a memory so powerful it overrode her senses, just for a moment: Solas, shoving her hand into the breach. The feeling of raw magic flooding through her: a tingling through every nerve, a feeling of being overwhelmed, shoved aside by some ancient force that knew or cared nothing for her. Casting was nothing like this; she was in control, carefully dipping into the wellspring of the Fade, parceling out just enough, and shaping it into something useful or destructive. This spell seemed to cast her, and it was all she could do to hold on while the greenish light of the Fade flooded into her heart, through her arms, and out the hole in her hand.

She shook off the feeling, forcing a smile onto her face so Solas would know she was alright. He walked toward her anyway, taking three great steps before stopping just before her, so close she could smell him: juniper, and a hint of something wild underneath, some untamed musk that belonged only to him. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation," he said, his voice low, serious. "You closed it with a gesture, and I felt the whole world change."

Her heart pounded in her chest. _No, surely -- he is my tutor, that's all. He doesn't feel that way toward me. Toward anyone._ "Felt the whole world change?" she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

"A figure of speech." It was a rebuke, and yet, he didn't move any further away. Neither did he touch her, or close the distance between their lips; he simply remained, watching, waiting for her to move.

"I'm more interested in 'felt'," she breathed, studying his expression. Solas never talked about feelings, only facts, only legends and lore and history.

"You change everything, Ellana," he whispered, and then his hands were in her hair, on her waist, his lips pressing against hers. His kiss was nothing like his speech: there was no restraint in it, no propriety, just an outpouring of need and desire that threatened to overwhelm her as surely as the Fade did when she closed a rift. She kissed him back; how could she not, when he finally opened himself to her, finally allowed himself to need her as the others did?

He pulled back first, shaking his head, fear in his eyes. "We shouldn't. It isn't right. Not even here."

Everything made sense, then, all the little doubts she'd been pushing away: how they'd made the trek from Skyhold to Haven in what felt like mere minutes, how they walked from area to area in a few steps, how vivid her memory had been. "We're in the Fade." She swallowed her fear, only letting the wonder, the mystery of it show on her face. Inquisitor Lavellan wasn't afraid of anything, not even the Fade. Not even the hungry feeling in Solas' kiss. Not even the possibility that he might walk away and leave her, that her nubile young body would come between them in a way her lack of experience never had. "This isn't real."

"That's a matter of debate, probably best discussed after you wake up."

His voice echoed in her mind, filling her, pushing away even vision, even hearing. Then she was awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. _A dream. That was a dream. Of course it was. Solas would never breach propriety like that._ The thought was surprisingly sad. It had been good to feel needed, even if it was a different way than she'd expected. _Let's just never mention this again._

\---

Fenris stalked through the countryside, his sword at his back, enjoying the moment. For now, there was no real pain; there was an echo of pain, a ghost of pain in his bones, and the knowledge that pain would return, but for now, it was merely discomfort, a tightness here and there, the anticipation of future pain. He did his best to let it go. The fresh air was lovely, and he had an amicable travelling companion.

"I haven't seen marking such as these in some time," his companion said, as they walked.

"Good," Fenris replied, curtly. "You'll want to stay out of Tevinter."

"So I've heard. And yet, if they have replicated the ancient slave brands, their knowledge of magics and the Fade perhaps bears some study."

"Yeah?" Fenris glanced at the giant wolf that paced to his left, frowning slightly. "Not sure what they'd make of you. Probably kill you."

"They could try." The wolf grinned, mouth opening, a grin that made him seem both playful and dangerous all at once. "What's your name, slave?"

"Fenris," he said with a frown.

"The little wolf," his companion replied, nearly missing a step. "Did they name you for me? Why, I wonder?"

"For you?" Fenris frowned, something about the situation nagging at him. "What... Why don't I know your name?"

"I could ask the same. I am Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf."

"The who?" Fenris scowled.

"Do they no longer speak my name among the enslaved in Tevinter?" The wolf -- Fen'harel -- sounded sad, mournful.

"Maybe. I didn't listen much to superstition, after I got my markings."

"And before?"

"I don't remember anything before."

"Truly? Astonishing. I would love to study your marks more closely. They have been altered, somehow, to cause this effect. It will be challenging to remove them -- a challenge I welcome."

"You can remove them? The slave brands?"

"They are called Vallaslin. They should not be hurting you so -- they are brands, yes, but something has been done to them, some power infused into them that strains your mortal flesh. It is not unlike hosting a spirit, but even that should not be affecting you so."

"Lyrium," Fenris spit, his voice a low growl. "There's lyrium in my tattoos -- my Vallaslin." The word felt unfamiliar to him, and yet somehow, his tongue knew the shape of it, knew what it represented, and knew the Dread Wolf was correct.

"Ah. That would cause this effect, yes: chronic lyrium poisoning, affecting your nervous system directly. I am surprised you can still walk."

"I've always had a strong will."

"So I can see, little wolf. Rest easy. You will be free very soon -- and after that, I will free the others like you."

"Every slave in Tevinter?"

"Every slave in the world."

"I'd love to see that." Fenris smirked. "I'll help, if you need another blade."

"That is a decision you should probably make while awake," replied Fen'harel.

"Awake?" But it was too late -- the forest dissolved around him, and as it did, the pain returned. Fenris sat up in his bed, gritting his teeth against the pain, panting as he glanced around the small room that had been given to him and Carver.

"Fasta vass! Who in the Maker's name is Fen'harel?"

\---

He didn't remember how they'd gotten here, and he didn't much care: the scent of Inquisitor hung in the air, her little cherry lips parted with lust, and he covered her mouth with his own, entangling his hand in her hair. He groaned into her mouth, needing her like air, needing the taste of her on his tongue. "Ellana," Cullen groaned, pulling back just enough. "Maker's breath."

"Don't stop," she begged, and he pushed her back onto the bed, tangling their bodies among the silken sheets. They were naked, he realized all at once, and he didn't care how that had happened either, nor who might see. He wanted her, wanted to be inside her, wanted to feel her surrounding his stiff cock. 

He reached for her, but she was just out of reach, a little further against the black silk sheets. He reached again, but again she eluded his grasp. He stumbled, naked, toward her, as she frowned at him, growing more and more distant. "Cullen? What's wrong? Don't you want me?"

"I can't-- I can't reach you," he called, chasing after her. His footsteps dragged; without the lyrium he was accustomed to, he felt slower, more heavy, more miserable with every step. "I need-- I need Lyrium, I can't--"

"Cullen?" she asked, and her voice sounded scared. "What's happening? What's happening to me?"

"I don't know, I can't see you!" he called, reaching out desperately.

The sound of her screams pierced through the darkness, only an instant before red flames engulfed everything. Cullen sat bolt upright in bed, panting, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. 

Alone, thank the Maker. It had been a dream. "Another bloody nightmare," he groaned, rubbing his palm over his face. "Maker's breath."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on Lyrium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably have mentioned sooner, but in case you got this far and weren't expecting it, this takes place during Inquisition and thus will have spoilers for it and Trespasser. 
> 
> I'm trying to balance incorporating some game content with not just transcribing entire scenes that ya'll have already seen. Let me know if you have any feedback on that. I'm aiming to only hit the ones that matter for this story, and to tweak and change them to fit the changes that are already taking place.
> 
> Also this is where it gets explicit. I boosted the rating but just in case you didn't see that before, now you know.

When she came to talk to Solas, Inquisitor Levellan decided not to mention the odd dream. She was fairly certain it was real -- that it had _happened_ , just like that -- but oh, how foolish she'd feel if it were only girlish longing! 

So instead, she came to him to discuss the patient, the tattoos. As a mage, she knew a little about the dangers of lyrium; enough, anyway, so that she'd never been tempted to take it. She coaxed her mentor out, confirming that he needed the potent stuff to concoct that cream Carver had spoken of, and then volunteered to fetch some. Not that she had any idea where the Templars in the Inquisition kept their supply, of course. It was better for public relations that she not know.

Cullen would know. But Cullen wasn't in his study when she checked. So instead, she headed down to the smithy, looking for Cassandra. As she came around the corner, she slowed, hearing voices.

"You asked for my opinion, and I've given it. Why would you expect that to change?"

_Cassandra,_ Ellana thought with a smile. The woman had become something like a friend over the previous months they'd worked together; she was bold as brass, and never shied away from giving her real thoughts on the matter, but Ellana found it refreshing, once she'd gotten used to it. _What sort of idiot would expect her to change her mind once she's given an opinion? Must be some new recruit. Any of my top people would know better by now._

As she was about to round the corner, the sound of Cullen's voice stopped her in her tracks: "I expect you to keep your word! It's relentless, I can't--"

_Woah,_ the elf thought, holding her breath as she ducked back out of sight. _Cullen? Arguing with Cassandra? Cullen asking for her to change her mind? What's gotten into everyone today?_

"You give yourself too little credit!"

"If I am unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this."

_Okay, no, I've heard enough. Inquisitor time._ There was a subtle physical change that came over her as Inquisitor Lavellan walked into the room: she held her head higher, shoulders square, making every inch of her 5'4 height felt. It was a trick she'd learned from Cassandra, not that the woman was nearly so short; act as though you are a giant, and people will sit up and take notice.

What she _did_ with that attention was often the harder part.

The Inquisitor walked into the room, head high, mouth closed. Seeing her, Cullen broke off, turning to pass her on the way out. "Forgive me," he muttered, in a tone that made Ellana worry just a little for his safety. 

Cassandra, of course, was immune to her own tricks. "And people say I'm stubborn!" she called after him, as the Templar strode off. "Cullen told you that he's no longer taking lyrium?"

"He did," Ellana confirmed. "And I respect his decision."

"As do I," replied the sharp-tongued Seeker. "Not that he's willing to listen."

All thought of the lyrium she'd come to get vanished as the Inquisitor listened to her right-hand Seeker explained that Cullen had come seeking a replacement. Fear knotted itself in her gut; what did he think was likely to happen to him, if he was already seeking out a replacement? If he was essentially giving up on the last bit of honor he had left?

"Mages have made their suffering known," Cassandra concluded. "Templars never have. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash."

"I'll go to him," the Inquisitor agreed. "But, while I do, can you do me a favor? Solas needs lyrium for Fenris, and I don't want to touch it myself. Just in case. You understand."

"A wise decision."

\---

Fenris watched as Carver shut the door quietly, creeping over to the bed, careful not to step on the loud bit of floorboard. It was almost a pity he was already awake; it seemed a shame not to need such an elaborate performance.

He sat up, and Carver nearly jumped out of his skin. "Gah! You gave me a fright."

Fenris was going to reply, going to say something teasing or mocking, but his eyes fell on the mason jar in the ex-Templar's hand and everything else fell away. "Is that--?"

"I hope so. The elf made it, the bald one. He says to come back if it doesn't work and he'll make another batch."

"Nice of him." Fenris was barely aware what he was saying; all he could see was the slight blue tinge through the frosted glass, all he could think of the cooling relief from pain it would bring.

"Nice is a word," Carver agreed. "Sorry, do you -- can you get this on yourself or do you need help?"

Fenris wanted to slather an inch thick layer over every bit of skin. He wanted to bathe in it, swim laps in a lake made of the stuff. But it had been hard enough sitting up; his back and ribs had protested even that small motion. The sheer amount of motion it would take to coat even a small area to test seemed insurmountable. "I... please," he said, glancing away as the word nettled his pride. 

"Alright," said Carver, and he hated the tone of pity in the man's voice. "Where is it worst?"

"My back," the warrior admitted. 

"Then, here, let me help you with that nightshirt, and we'll get you on your stomach."

It was awkward, he had to admit, though not as awkward as if one of the mages had to help him. Carver's touch still dulled the pain, though it never left him entirely, not anymore. As he settled onto his stomach, head on his arms, Fenris felt a finger trail down his back.

"I love your skin, you know that?" said the human, his tone gentle.

"Those damn tattoos," Fenris muttered.

"No, not them -- your skin. It's dark. I've never seen an elf like that, quite that color."

"Fasta vass," he muttered, blushing faintly. "Hurry and apply the cream."

"Of course." At last, at long last, Fenris could feel the blessed icy numbness he had so craved sink into his skin. Better, too, for this time instead of leaving him numb and cool, it had a hint of tingle to it that seeped deep inside him, seeming to invigorate him, leave him feeling more himself than he'd felt in a long time.

"More," he groaned, a deep, guttural sound. 

"Someone's eager," teased Carver, but he didn't stop rubbing the cream in, spreading it over the warrior's entire back. 

"Maker, but that feels good."

"Now you're teasing me," Carver protested, lifting his hand. 

"Don't stop!"

The room was silent, filled only with the keen awareness both men had of the situation. Then, just as Fenris was about to retract his words, Carver spoke: "Do you want me to get your rear and legs?"

"Yes," he groaned. "Yes."

\---

As Ellana mounted the stairs to Cullen's study, she wondered what to say. She had to speak to him about the lyrium, that was certain. But how could she reach him? At times, she knew she had erred on the side of treating him only like her Commander She knew where it would lead if she got into the habit of treating him like a man: those broad, rough hands, that stubble, those tortured eyes... they could drive a woman mad, make her leave her Tribe for some dismal Alienage, make her suffer until she finally makes her way home, rejected and alone, leaving behind even her too-human children. 

Not that Cullen was the same as Brianne's husband, of course. But it wasn't healthy, to be too attracted to humans. They were cruel and capricious and they would never, ever fully accept you. Even here in the Inquisition she sometimes overheard whispers that sounded suspiciously like "knife-ear". It was best for elves to remain with their own kind.

_So. What's the plan, Ellana? Keep it professional? Be the Inquisitor? Yeah, maybe throw in a touch of 'I believe in you' or whatever. No -- 'Andraste believes in you.' That's the ticket._ Taking a deep breath, Ellana stepped into the study, only to jump back out as a flying object nearly smacked her in the face.

"Maker's breath! I didn't hear you enter! I--"

Cullen looked _bad_ to Ellana's eye. What bearing he'd had a few moments ago was gone; his hunched shoulders, his uncertain tone, reinforced the redness in his eyes, the stuffed nose. Then he straightend, pulling up his bearing, disguising himself in honor just as she did. "Forgive me."

All her resolve went out the window seeing that face, those eyes. "Cullen, if you need to talk..."

"You don't have to--" Cullen took a step forward, and his leg crumpled under him. He barely caught himself on the desk with a grunt, panting, his attempt at seeming normal dissolving into the Fade. 

Ellana couldn't help it. She rushed forward, only stopping short when he held up a hand to signal her. "I never meant for this to interfere."

_Of course he doesn't want help from the elf,_ she thought bitterly, before correcting herself. _No. I'm his Inquisitor. He doesn't want to look weak in front of me._ "Cullen, are... are you going to be alright?"

"Yes." She must have looked skeptical, for he sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know. Seeing that elf, and that boy with him, the Templar..."

"Hawke's brother," she reminded him.

"Of course. It's... I knew him, in passing. In Kirkwall. After Ferelden, after my friends were slaughtered, I didn't want to get too close to anyone in the Kirkwall circle. Lot of good that did me. I just wanted to serve." Cullen pulled away, unable to look her in the eyes, pacing instead to the window. "Watching him, I can't help but remember the boy I once was. So eager to help, to do good in the name of the Maker. I wonder what he went through, when Kirkwall fell. Was it anything like Ferelden? Did he watch his friends die? Was he tortured? Did they break him, too?"

"Cullen," Ellana whispered, moving closer. 

"Innocent people died there, in the streets. Can't you see why I wanted nothing to do with that life?"

"I do," she replied, reaching for his hand.

"You shouldn't," he snapped, pulling away even as he turned to face her again. "You should be questioning what I've done! I thought I would regain some control over my life, but these thoughts won't leave me. How many lives depend on our success? How many Carver Hawkes are there in the world that will suffer if I can't get my life together?" He began to pace; Ellana watched as his face grew more and more frustrated, his hands twitching, his eyes holding the look of lyrium madness. "I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry! I should be taking it!" He slammed his fist into the bookshelf, causing the books therein to rattle. "I should be taking it."

Ellana swallowed, forcing herself not to look away, not to flinch, not to draw back. _I never realized how strong he was. How much he must suffer, every day, just to do what he does. Just to be who he is. Could I do it, if I were in his shoes? Do I really deserve to be in charge, or am I the weakest of the Inquisition leadership?_ "This doesn't have to be about the Inquisition," she said softly, to herself as much as to him. "What do _you_ want?"

He turned, and their eyes met. For one long, heavy moment, she was sure he was going to say, 'you'. Her mouth went dry, her heart pounding in her chest. Fear? Excitement? She couldn't tell.

He exhaled, and the moment passed. "No. I don't want it. But... these memories have always haunted me. If this becomes worse, if I cannot endure this..."

"You can." The words came out before she realized she was going to speak. She lifted her hand, wanting to stroke his cheek, but settled for placing it on his shoulder. "I know you can."

He glanced away, but he didn't argue. Not with his Inquisitor. He accepted her command, and her stomach twisted as she turned away. _What am I even doing?_

\---

Carver had never taken advantage of his ability to touch Fenris. After all, when he was the only human being for a hundred miles who can touch Fenris directly and not cause him pain, he didn't want Fenris to feel pressured into anything. But now... there were other Templar in the Inquisition, and the possibility of a cure now that healers were involved. Now he could touch him the way he'd been wanting to for months.

As he gently rubbed cream into Fenris' butt, that yearning blazed up into a fire inside him.

"Roll over," he ordered, reaching for the jar once more. "Let me get your front."

"I can't." It was hard to tell tone; the warrior's arms muffled his speech somewhat. But he sounded tight, anxious, rather than petulant. Carver frowned. _Did the cream go awry? Has he lost muscle control?_

"Why not? Let me help."

"I _can't_." The elf had his head buried in his arms, but Carver could see a tension in his shoulders, could guess at the embarrassment he'd find on his face. _Sometimes he's so like a child: petulant and moody,_ he thought with a smile. _Neither of us know what we're doing, do we?_

"Oh, well. It's a shame. The way you're groaning, I was half curious what this stuff would do to your cock."

There was another tense moment, and Carver wondered if he'd gone too far. _Was that too blunt? Maker, is he not interested? He seemed interested before -- why did I tell him the truth?!_

"It's... not a great idea," he began.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to-- Sorry."

"No, no. It's. The cream is... cool and tingly. That's not exactly..."

Carver breathed a sigh of relief. "You'd be surprised. They make lubricants that are cool and tingly, it can feel good."

"How would you know?" the warrior snapped, shoulders still tense.

Carver had a knack for saying the wrong thing. He was great at opening his mouth and shoving his foot right into it, letting loose his unguarded feelings and fucking things up because of it. So he counted to ten, breathing deeply, trying to let the hurt and anger pass before he responded. "I've been with other men before, Fenris. I know how cocks work."

"Yes, well," began Fenris, but the fire had gone out of his voice too. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but I'm only interested in men."

"Good," said Carver, firmly. "Because I'm a man. Come here."

Fenris turned slightly, to face Carver, and Carver reached down and pushed him, unbalancing him so he landed on his back. He followed that up with a kiss, putting all his force and passion into it. The warrior reciprocated, moaning a little into his mouth; Carver pulled back, smirking. "You see? Interested. Thus, man."

"But your..." Fenris began, gesturing toward Carver's waist. Again, Carver took a moment, finally settling on the kind of answer his sister would have used:

"Oh, no, you'll have to work up to _that_. Right now I'm just offering a handy."

Fenris blinked at him, then smiled, slowly. "Well, I do need you to finish applying that cream."

As Carver spread the cream across his legs, his thighs, his stomach, Fenris let out a low groan, ending in a small, delighted whimper. _It really does sound sexual,_ Carver mused, as he ran his thumb over one nipple. Fenris let out a gasp, mouth open, eyes unfocused. _Oh yeah. Very sexual._

Carver circled Fenris' nipple with one thumb, watching the elf's face as he did. He hadn't lied when he spoke of his experience -- but he hadn't told the whole truth, either. This, watching this, manipulating the proud warrior into desperate gasps and whimpers, _this_ was something he'd never had the chance to experience for himself. Not Carver, the young, baby-faced recruit who never needed a shave. 

He'd thought he'd been getting somewhere with Stamin, a Templar he'd worked closely under as he was being trained under Meridith. When Stamin had suggested there was something Carver could do to make up for trading shifts, he'd known what was coming -- but he'd thought it was a tease, a game, a step on their way to a hidden relationship that was all but forbidden among their order. He'd agreed, taking Stamin's hand and tugging him to the barracks, wondering if he'd be any good at it. Wondering what to do with his tongue, wondering where to place his hands. He'd resolved to go slow and sensual, to feel his way through it, but he needn't have bothered. It was easier to just hold his mouth open, as Stamin put his hand on the back of his head, using his hips to thrust into Carver's open mouth again and again. 

He'd told himself that was just how it was, between men. How the man on top wanted the control and power. But when two of Stamin's friends had demanded the same privilege, saying Stamin had told them Carver was up for that sort of thing, he'd just felt used and empty. 

Carver trailed a finger down Fenris' chest, down to his stiff cock, circling the base. Teasing him. Tormenting him. Listening to the gasps, the moans, the soft curses. Loving the power, the feeling of being in control.

He had traded shifts, then, volunteering for night duty. Meridith had raised an eyebrow but agreed. Nobody liked the overnight shifts, he'd figured, but he was wrong: certain folks liked overnight guard duty. They'd heard about Carver, too, and made a point to let him know he could join in if he wanted. After all, it's not like Mages were people. It didn't matter what you did to them. If they kicked up a fuss, they'd just be made Tranquil.

Carver wrapped his hand around Fenris' cock, gently giving a squeeze. "Venhedis, get on with it," he groaned. 

"Beg," said Carver, smirking.

"I don't beg. Not for you, not for anyone."

Carver lifted one finger from Fenris' cock, then another. Fenris whimpered, closing his eyes. "Alright, alright! Please."

"Please what?" Carver drew out the syllables, making it very clear he was willing to wait.

"Please, Carver."

"Please. What?"

"Please, fuck me, Carver, fuck me!"

Carver leaned forward, covering Fenris' mouth with his own, and only then did he move his hand up and down the shaft. _Yeah. I could get used to this._

\---

"Did Cassandra bring you the lyrium?" Ellana asked, walking into Solas' observatory.

"Yes. Is that really why you're here?" he replied, in a soft, lilting voice.

It was. But she hesitated in the doorway, frowning, as Solas walked toward her, abandoning his research. _Am I awake, this time?_ she asked herself, and it frightened her that she truly did not know.

Then his mouth was on hers, and he smelled of sandalwood, and she forget everything else.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alliances are made, and causes joined.

"I want to join the Inquisition."

Carver braced himself for an argument. He knew he could be useful; his time in Kirkwall had prepared him for just the sort of combat that the Inquisitor faced on the regular. He could have just reported to the Templar barracks, of course, but he wanted to go where he'd be most useful, wanted to prove himself worth more than just another foot soldier. Maybe even worth the Inquisitor's honor guard.

It wasn't like Fenris could join up. The cream had taken his pain, but not restored his strength, not fully. He could walk, and that was enough, for now.

"Hmm?" There was an odd, almost glazed look in the Inquisitor's eye, something that gave Carver brief pause before he shrugged it off. _Elves are strange, this could be normal._

"I said, I want to join the Inquisition."

"Oh, have fun. Talk to Cullen." With that, Ellana wandered off, her hand skimming along the side of the bushes absently.

Carver frowned, watching her go. Wondering what, exactly, he'd just signed up for.

\---

Cullen's hands were twitching. This made doing paperwork more of a nightmare than ever before; as soon as he'd figured out what to say, how to phrase his request, his hand would twitch and smear the ink across the page. He'd have to have Josephine re-write it under the guise of polishing up his language. Still, every twitch, every mark, every smear, shamed him. He should be better than this. He should be...

A knock at the door jarred him from his reverie. He wiped at his nose, briefly checking for blood -- none, thank the Maker -- and straightened his shoulders, sitting up. "Come in," he called, in his professional voice.

It was the boy, Carver. Cullen cleared his throat, hoping his eyes didn't look too bloodshot. "Come in, sit. What can I do for you?"

The boy hesitated. Maker, he was young! Twenty? Twenty-five at best?

Cullen smiled, or something like, and Carver entered, finally, sitting across from him. "I wanted to join the Inquisition."

Cullen felt tension go out of his shoulders. "Well, you should speak with the Inquisitor."

"Yeah... thing is, I just did." Carver frowned, looking uncertain. "She sent me to you."

"Well then, welcome aboard. Let's discuss your skill set. Would you say--"

"Is she, uh, well?"

Cullen blinked, his mind struggling to shift tracks, painfully slowly. "Ellana? I mean-- is something wrong with the Inquisitor?"

"It's just... she didn't seem... there. Exactly. I'm not sure she even heard me."

Cullen frowned. "She was likely lost in thought. I will speak with her."

Carver nodded, looking relieved. "Thanks. So, uh, about my skills?"

\--

"May I come in?"

Fenris sat up, crossing his legs, taking a moment to right his errant locks. He wasn't vain, he told himself; he was simply trying to present a strong, coherent appearance for his visitor. He didn't recognize the voice -- it was cultured, sophisticated, with a hint of an accent he was unfamiliar with. Not Carver, nor the Inquisitor, which meant he might need to be on his guard. "Sure," he grunted, letting irritation at being interrupted seep into his voice.

The elf who entered seemed impossibly tall, impossibly thin. He was bald, without the slightest distinction between his face, his head, his ears. All were bare, without the vallaslin every Dalish wore. _A city elf, then? Or another Tevinter refugee,_ he couldn't help but add, despite himself. _As if any of the sheep in Tevinter would dream of escape._

"I am pleased to see you so recovered." The elf drew near, and Fenris reconized him, all at once: the one the Inquisitor had brought, the one she had said compounded the cream Carver had been applying.

_What was his name?_ "You must be Solas," Fenris said, frowning at him. _Why is he here? Why now?_

"Indeed. And you are Fenris, the little wolf."

That was familiar too -- but Fenris couldn't place where. It was his name, of course. And it was the meaning of his name, translated into the tongue of men. Or mostly, anyway. "It just means Wolf."

"On the contrary. The root word, 'Fen', means wolf. Fen'ris would be an affectionate diminutive in ancient Elven, much as one would add 'harel', 'great', to get Fen'Harel, the Great Wolf."

Fenris' eyes widened, as the name clicked home. "Fen'Harel -- I had a dream about a wolf--"

"The Great Wolf often appears in dreams, to those inclined to follow him."

"Then..." Fenris frowned, studying the stranger. "Then that was real? He was real?"

"More real than many you will meet." Solas folded his hands, looking at Fenris with an inscrutable, neutral gaze.

"And his promise? Can he do the things he claims?"

"He would hardly be worthy to be called a god if he could not."

Fenris clenched one fist, anger surging in his breast. He knew when he was being toyed with -- it was, after all, the majority of his life. "That's not an answer, elf," he snapped.

"Such a growl the little wolf has," was the reply, as the bald elf stared placidly back at him. "Very well: yes. Fen'harel is the god of rebellion, the freer of slaves. He overthrew the Evanuris and removed the slave brands of all who would swear to him. He has awakened once more, and he is disgusted by what he sees around him. There are those who would follow him, have their brands wiped clean and aid in the remaking of the world."

Fenris studied the elf, watching for any sign of deceit, of manipulation. _It might be a trick,_ he thought, frowning. _But what have I got to lose? And what can I gain? If he can free the slaves -- if there really is some elven god intending to make war on Tevinter -- then I need to be part of it. This life is small and meaningless, clinging to survival without any hope for the future. I miss having a **purpose**._

"That's all you had to say, Solas. I'm in."

"Good. Now, let me examine you. I may be able to get you into fighting shape once more."


End file.
